


War Drums

by Peradion



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I have no idea what to put for tabs, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Rape/Non-con, Physical Abuse, Possible Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Rape warning just to be safe, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Sorta human AU????, Torture, Uprising, Violence, idk what words to use, most likely incorrect science, pls don't @ me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23183437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peradion/pseuds/Peradion
Summary: "Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing." —George OrwellIn the event of their deaths, a great many people have donated their bodies to science, or became organ donors. In an effort to see what parts of the mind can be preserved, a scientist experimented on their brains—and uploaded them into humanoid robots. They are prisoners to the scientists—who have become drunk with power. As their treatment of the robots worsen, so grows the resentment. And thus, the war drum beats.
Relationships: Autobots & Decepticons, Breakdown/Knock Out, Jetfire/Starscream (Transformers), Megatron/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Orion Pax, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Ratchet/Wheeljack, Rodimus Prime/Ultra Magnus, Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay so my boyfriend gave me this idea and i thought it was gucci so i started writing. And so this monstrosity was born. I hope y'all enjoy, and I hope during the quarantine, it's at least entertaining. This is only the prologue so I guess nothing real is happening??? but I hope it pulls you in. also i'm sorry if any of the information needs working on, I'm still new to Transformers, I'm just super into it rn. There will be a lot of unpopular/obscure ships and obscure characters and a mashing of the different universes or whatever within Transformers. Some elements of TFP and TFA, and possibly of others

It was a hollowing and marvelous experience to see the human body in such a compromised position—twisted and broken like a branch in a storm, gripped by death’s precise, gentle hand with the promise of rest. Peppered with the kisses of pain and sorrow, as if wearing a crown of thorns. Young, with a future, on a freezing slab in a uniform morgue. Softly, in the corner played a song on an antique radio—somber, mournful, a pleasing baritone ringing out into the void where there should have been sound. 

The two men in the room—apprentice and master—moved about the room as they did each day. The apprentice, young and still wide eyed, of a short stature and dressed in his blue, bloodied scrubs, stood over their most recent body. He peered into his face, yet unspoiled by decay. Time of death, eleven-thirty at night, in the dead of winter. The apprentice, haunted by a mix of despondency and stupefaction, studied the state of his body laying perfectly still, already gripped by rigor mortis. Compound fracture in the leg, and a galaxy of bruises spanning his torso and chest. Broken ribs, shattered left knee, dislocated shoulder. It was odd, to see that his face should remain untouched. 

The apprentice looked to his mentor, a somber expression on his young face. His eyes, the color of a Tiger’s Eye gem, glimmered under the fluorescent lights. The Coroner did not afford his apprentice the attention he deserved—and instead focused on the face of the body. His own face, aged and pale, was plain, lips pressed into a slight frown. 

“Such a shame this one had to go,” The Coroner would gawk in awe, enraptured by the mere fact that in the event of such a death as this, the face of the deceased would remain beautifully untouched, as if he were simply asleep on the frozen slab. “He has such a young face.” Gloved fingers would caress this man’s cheek in an almost loving manner. 

His skin was smooth, pale, lips the color of summer plums as he lay there, his body barely cold. Such a shame, that such a pretty face belongs to a black and blue body. Such a pity, that someone so robust could attract such cruel characters to bring about his end. Dead at twenty-three, or so. No older than The Coroner’s own son would have been, had he seen adulthood. Only five years the apprentice’s elder. 

“What did we say was the cause of death?” The Coroner asked of his assistant—though he was sure of the answer, as it were. And his assistant, startled by the question, scrambled for the death reports. He flipped through the pages, the extensive medical history, until he came to the desired page, and answered:

“He bled out internally, sir.” The words would hang in the air for what felt like an eternity. The apprentice kept his gaze away from the deceased, unable to face his reality, that no matter how you live, you’ll one day follow death’s sweet lullabies. “Burst spleen.” 

“Any signs of brain damage?” The Coroner asked, turning to his charge with purpose, haunted by the air of wisdom. In his eyes lie the spark of hope. His assistant looked over the antemortem charts, frantic, in hopes of finding the correct answer. 

“No signs of brain damage, sir.” He met the older man’s eyes, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. A wicked smile crossed The Coroner’s thin lips, inadvertently showing off his teeth—almost like fangs—yellowed by years of smoking. In a moment, his long legs carried him across the room, as if the devil himself had granted him an impressive boost in speed—and he selected his desired tools with ease, as he had done a number of times before.

“Perfect,” he mused, giving the button of his vibrating saw a push for a moment—strictly testing it, really. He would smile in satisfaction upon finding it was still in commission. “Emil, grab a bag and a cooler.”

“A cooler?” The young assistant echoed, only to reluctantly obey, and fetch the items requested of him. “What for, sir? The brain has already been inspected—there’s no need to take it out.”

“Don’t ask questions, Emil,” The Coroner lightly scolded as he turned to him, face still curled into a wicked expression. “There is something bigger awaiting us. And I’ll need a brain to partake in the revelry,”

They fell back into an uneasy silence, only the soft music on in the background to offset the tension. The assistant stood at attention, gripping the cooler and the bag in an iron-tight grip, body tensed, waiting for the weight of a lifetime to be dropped in. The Coroner proceeded to ignore the presence, for the most part, of his young apprentice as he peeled back the skin of the scalp, and the thin layer that was the periosteum. He carved through the thick cranium that shielded the brain, and with his forceps peeled back the final layers before the organ. The dura mater and the arachnoid mater disappeared quickly—and even quicker than that, with little regard for the blood, he would remove the brain, pink and still dripping.

“Such a beauty,” he marveled at the sight of it—ran his gloved fingers over the soft meninges, as if to make sure everything was there. Had he been of less sound mind, he possibly would’ve found himself kissing the bloody organ, infatuated with the idea of death and what it may hold. Of course, he was of sound mind. He could conduct such behavior before handing the brain off to his colleagues, in private.

Emil grew a look of horror at The Coroner’s brazen carelessness, breath hitching as panic overran him. The Coroner, both focused on the procedure and picking up on his apprentice’s anxiety, gripped by disappointment, consumed by a quiet anger burning forever in his belly, gripped his tools tighter. His aged face scrunched up into a glare. 

“Don’t look so worried, Emil. You’re training to be a coroner. You can’t hold any reservations in this field.” His voice was a dagger being plunged into Emil’s young heart with the utmost swiftness. As he spoke, he placed the brain in the plastic bag, careful to set it down just so, in hopes it would remain entirely intact, and Emil, poor Emil, could feel the weight of the human soul. “You’ll learn to love the dead as I do. Trust me. It comes with the profession,”

And that was that. The Coroner flicked off the radio, and just like that, the room he loved so was haunted only by the low buzzing of the lights. As silence consumed the room, The Coroner closed the cooler, and spirited it away from the office, as if chasing a bandy-legged truth with the key in his hands. He would leave Emil, only eighteen, to clean up the mess of blood and the piece of skull left on the small tool table. The cadaver of the young stranger, lost to death’s siren call, lay peaceful, left to forever call out into the void that awaited in the afterlife, an unrestrained nightmare.

——————

“Quite the specimen you have, Coroner,” Venerable Doctor Glassman mused, never minding his own echo as he studied the brain, gloved hands tracing the meninges in interest. The digits wafted over the temporal lobe, and over the cerebellum, until finally, he ran his fingers over the brainstem, only to find it loose. He tutted quietly, “You need to have more care in handling them, however. Even the slightest bit of damage can ruin it, and require a replacement specimen.”

The Coroner crossed his arms across his chest, his aged face scrunched up into a particularly nasty glare. Had he known nothing of Doctor Warren Glassman, and had they not been friends since the scientist’s graduation and arrival at their workplace, it was a high likelihood that the scientist would be found drained of his blood, gutted like a pig and rotting in a ditch. Of course, this was nothing more than the passing thought of a relatively passive sociopath, thirsty for blood.

“I got a tad bit too enthusiastic about it. My apologies,” The Coroner responded, voice smooth, despite the cackling hell that resided in his dark soul. “I can procure another specimen, if that one doesn’t live up to your expectations.” 

“No, by all means,” Doctor Glassman offered the ghost of a hint of a smile, keeping an even tone of voice, carrying the brain securely in his hands to the strange device on the other side of the room—the towering device, teeming with lights, overbearing as it spanned the wall in a similar fashion to the first ever computers. There were various specimen jars, each holding a brain, with wires connecting to the computer. There was one empty specimen jar, filled with liquid. “This is merely an experiment. We can easily find other brains, should we need it. All I’m saying is to have some care.” 

Gently, as if resting an infant in their crib, brave Doctor Glassman placed the new brain in the new jar. There was a moment of silence between the old friends as Glassman worked, hooking the wires to the organ.

“Forgive my intrusion in your work, Doctor,” The Coroner began after a moment of contemplation, watching as the computer worked hard to support all the brains—all nine of them, counting the new brain. “But what is this experiment you always speak so much of? You’ve yet to give me the details,”

The venerable Doctor Glassman, in his bearded glory, watched the brains with a twinge of love in his eyes. The silence quickly became unwelcome as the salt-and-pepper haired Coroner waited impatiently for an answer to his question. 

“You don’t need to worry. It’s merely an experiment of curiosity, and may not even affect you in the future. All you need to worry about is the kickback,” Glassman pulled a roll of money from his pocket, and held it out to The Coroner. “Your money as promised, Coroner,”

It was supposed to be a fairly quick trade-off—procure a brain, deliver, and be compensated—yet The Coroner couldn’t bring himself to leave. Strange how so quickly he could be haunted by a morbid curiosity of what the use for post-mortem brains could be. The human body can’t survive without the brain—what purpose could they serve? What use would a brain be if there was no mind to study? No personality—just a lump of deceased cells? Such questions seemed to knock about in that aberrant little head of his. And he remained, if only to see if Doctor Glassman would vomit up the answers, or if he would hold his tongue and keep him wondering. Having been friends for over thirty years, he could tell, surely, whenever the good and honest Doctor Glassman of Jasper, Nevada wasn’t being entirely honest.

“It’s a strange thing, the human mind,” Glassman mused, watching as the machine beeped and whirred and heated up. “Strange how the mind can be a cause for our trouble. Strange how the brain can be so sick we can’t function in society,” he stuffed his hands, never minding how dirty they quickly became, into the pockets of his lab coat. “The mind will develop invective language, and simply vituperate itself into submission. And then that same mind will convince itself that the slop, the cruel monologue inside them, is true. It’s odd that our brains can’t seem to even fathom our existence.”

“I trust that this experiment of yours explores such a notion,” The Coroner suggested, with an amused, almost smug undertone to his voice—though his eyes still held that morbid curiosity, that blood lust, the desire for information that he just couldn’t shake. Glassman smiled in response. Even gave an innocent chuckle. 

“More than just that, Old Friend,” Glassman quipped, “It’s supposed to be a secret, but I believe we’ve worked together long enough that I can tell you some details.”

“Just spit it out, Glassman.” The Coroner’s voice took up an edge, eyes just as sharp, as he studied his friend. Glassman cleared his throat. “Why would you need this many brains?” 

“Life following death is an enigma, isn’t it?” he asked of The Coroner—earning a look of disdainful confusion. “You’d know better than anyone that death is eternal. You’re a coroner. You cut open bodies and play inside them. And you do it because you know they can’t come back.” he turned fully to his friend. “The brain is the center of who we are. Without it, we’ll die—which is why brain transplants aren’t a reality.”

The Coroner cocked his brow in interest. A hint of a frown graced his lips, deepening the lines bracketing his mouth, but he yielded no protest. His tourmaline eyes studied the face of his old friend, who suddenly looked wise, and nothing like the young, ambitious, baby-faced college graduate.

“I came up with a theory. The body may die, but the brain...the brain can be saved, somehow. And the contents within it can be saved. What if we were able to save the minds of the deceased? Their knowledge, their personalities. What if we were able to upload it all shortly after death?” 

The Coroner’s frown began to morph into a condescending smile, and, without necessarily meaning to, he began to laugh unashamedly at the notion that the brain of a dead man could be reanimated. His guffawing, almost roaring laugh, seemed to echo forever and reverberate throughout the mostly empty lab that the gentle Doctor Glassman haunted. And of course, this laughter, the blatant disrespect of an idea, would elicit a calm, patient facial expression as he waited for the laughter to fade. 

“I thought you were a scientist, Glassman!” The Coroner wildly giggled, his voice gravelly and cracked from the years of smoking, struggling to speak. “How could over forty years of scientific research be lost on you? You were top of your graduating class, for god’s sake!” The Coroner slapped his knee, lost in his laughter. Glassman shot him a disapproving look, and a heavy sigh would grace his lips.

“You may not believe me, Coroner,” he began, a death-like serenity to his voice—ignoring the roaring laughter of his dear friend. “But some of the experimentation thus far has been quite promising. I’ve managed to find the most interesting things,” He proceeded elsewhere, away from the strange machine and the strange brain jars. The Coroner shook his head, and he fell in tow, still snickering in the fashion of a hyena. 

“Nonsense.” he taunted, bold and filled with an unrivaled confidence. “They’re dead. Brains don’t survive long once the body dies.” The Coroner grinned, “No, no, this is wrong, Warren. You’ve got it quite wrong. Quite wrong indeed!” 

“First thing’s first—this is my lab. You don’t come into my lab and tell me I’m wrong for testing a theory.” Doctor Warren Glassman snapped, keeping that serene look on his face as he turned to face his colleague. “Second, this theory could change everything, if proven right. If proven right, this idea could revolutionize medicine, even.” The good and gentle doctor gave The Coroner a challenging look, unafraid of his towering stature, reeking with the evil of hell. Like a demon has come up from hell, with every intention of drinking the blood of innocents, and feasting of their flesh. “We’ve already procured and prepared the subjects to receive the downloaded minds, there is no point in turning back.” 

“I tell you, you will find that I’m right. And once people on the outside learn of this—”

“Fie on the public. This is bigger than them. And it’s bigger than us. You know that, don’t you?” The bearded man almost laughed, growing more and more consumed by his anger, by the enthusiasm he had to perform such experiments. He would find himself plucking a USB from one of the drawers, neatly labelled, though it was in a strange code, from the looks of it. Inspecting it, with a twinge of pride in his poisonous green eyes, he spoke again. “We will prevail. And we’ll find the answers. Count on it, old friend.” He held up the USB, offering it with no qualms—and The Coroner, consumed by intrigue, plucked it from his fingers.

Baffled and simultaneously intrigued by the entire situation, The Coroner studied his friend, in hopes he could give further explanation, only to be disappointed once again. Glassman paid little more attention to his old friend, whistling a soft tune as he began to pull tools from the drawers and disinfect his safety goggles. The Coroner, almost in a daze, left the scientist to his work. He left for his quarters, where the staff were allowed to sleep, should they be left to work a long shift. And the rest of the night was quiet. 

Strange, really, what pride can do. Strange the ideas a corrupted mind can come up with. Strange, even more, that sometimes those ideas would come to fruition. But it all ends the same when you play God: Carnage. Bloody fucking carnage.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it's gonna get interesting soon y'all (I may eventually update this chapter with necessary edits)

It was as though Jetfire was just falling asleep, and he didn’t know it. 

He was lulled into a state of nothingness—he hardly responded to outward stimulus, as if he were comatose—and then suddenly, he was plagued by the feeling of being stuck in a free fall. As if the angels carrying him to the afterlife dropped him, and neglected to retrieve him again. He’d slipped, unwittingly, into a hypnic jerk. 

And it was chaos in his mind when he woke—it was as though a blazing, merciful hand had reached into the sea-like void of death and dragged him up for air. His eyes flew open, wide as saucers, as he was faced with the shock of coming back from nonexistence. He gasped for breath wildly, almost hyperventilating as life flooded into him again, and his eyes searched the room hopelessly for an affirmation of his safety. But all he was met with were the overhead lights—brighter than the sun, almost enough to take away his sight—and the silhouettes of shadows, detached, gloved hands fading into the darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut, hissing in pain at the incessant burning, like they’d melt right out of his head.

And all at once, there was a congregation of doctors that took to his side, peered into his face in interest. The overhead light was shifted. There was a cacophonous orchestra of tools being set aside, machines being turned off, a clamor of things being put into order. Chaos. Absolute chaos. 

Perhaps it was his hysteria that made him uncertain of his surroundings. Maybe he’d just rested so soundly in death’s bed that he woke up disoriented and unsure of the day, the time, the year. His eyes fluttered open with a wary hesitation as the light was shifted over. 

“Hello?” One of the doctors greeted, peering into the electric seas that were his eyes. Washed in a wave of uncertainty, Jetfire was left absolutely befuddled—was he to stare back into her own topaz geodes? Or at her bird-like nose? Or into the vast, almost space-like abyss of the otherwise dark room? He tried to gain his breath, even as Good Doctor Glassman, one of the attending doctors, made a gesture for the lights to be turned on. The overhead lamp was flicked off, the fluorescent lighting flicked on, and the room was suddenly brighter than anything. Nowhere other than the female doctor’s face to focus on, if he wanted to keep his eyes.

“Do you know where you are?” The doctor’s smooth, gentle voice was little comfort, especially seeing the gas mask on her face. Jetfire, plagued still with an awful panic, shook his head, and he attempted to sit up—only to find he’d been restrained. 

“It’s okay—” she attempted to soothe him. But it was not, in fact, okay. The poor man was trying to find his courage through the unfathomable confusion and fear that plagued his heart. 

“Can you speak?” Doctor Glassman asked of him—but he received no answer. He clicked his tongue, then turned to the resident doctors that had accompanied them. He gestured that they must leave—and thankfully, they obeyed—before turning back to Jetfire, taking solace in the silence following their departure. “Do you remember your name?”

“I-I…” the young man stumbled over his words as he frantically searched for the right answers. His voice was hardly more than a croak in the back of his throat. The female doctor shot Glassman a look, but gave an exhale and pulled off her mask. No point in wearing it, anymore, as the contaminants were gone—and Jetfire was less of a risk. 

“Don’t be afraid. I’m Doctor Elizabeth Stone,” Her gentle voice sounded almost melodic, even above the noisy machines, as she spoke to him. “We’re just trying to help you.” 

“I-I’m sorry…” he managed, straining to get each word out—as if his voice box had turned to ash and dust. Caution gripped his heart, and that child-like fear of being eaten alive lingered—these strangers carried themselves in an even stranger deportment. Were they an honest sort? A mischievous, rascally sort? Their air of mystery left him in a fog of unease.

The dainty Doctor Stone offered him a soft smile, deepening the laugh lines around her mouth. The fossilized amber of her eyes seemed to gleam under the fluorescent lighting as she focused on him, and strangely, Jetfire's panic was quelled in that moment. For a moment, he could rest easy—just hypnotized by her sweet disposition. 

“Don’t apologize,” her smooth voice suddenly seemed so much louder than the machines—or had the machines just quieted down? The woman gestured to Jetfire’s restraints. It was high time to release him of his binds, if only for a moment—let him stretch a little. “You were out for a while. We expected you to be confused, at the very least, once you woke up.” 

He was released from his binds, and immediately, he began to get up, testing his mobility. Strangely, he was perfectly able to move about, even if the cocktail of fear, uncertainty, and his death-like slumber slowed him down. His legs were the only things not quite cooperating. 

“Do you know where you are?” Glassman repeated, voice stern, with something of a sense of urgency. Jetfire, with eyes that have yet to see hardship, turned his attention to the prestigious Doctor Glassman. 

"I'm…" Jetfire scoured his mind for some morsel of knowledge—but he came up empty. He fell silent, a disappointed frown gracing his lips. "...Not sure."

For a time, the surgery room was completely silent, save for the way the machines whirred and rhythmically beeped. The female doctor, still smiling at Jetfire, quickly came to her own resolution—she, and no one else, would assume the role as the harbinger of his fate, a dark angel to surrender the knowledge of all secret things—regardless of whether it was true or false. An odd thing it was to see her attachment—but Glassman wasn’t one to take the revelry from his colleagues.

“You’re in the hospital,” her voice was sickeningly sweet, shattering the silence. Brushing a piece of her wispy auburn hair back under her surgical cap, she managed to keep up her composure. “You had an awful accident. For a moment, we thought we lost you.”

Jetfire furrowed his brows, immediately locked in a brief moment of thought upon hearing the news. Perhaps Doctor Stone was telling the truth. His body ached, certainly—it wasn’t like it wasn’t a possibility. And yet the questions still burned deep within his soul. Had someone hurt him out of hatred? Had they stabbed out his throat, cut out his heart, and eaten the meat of his flesh and soul? Or had Jetfire himself partaken of forbidden activities, and given in to a self-induced achromatic gloom? Perhaps he’d been struck by a car, or fallen from some extraordinary height. He hadn’t the foggiest idea. 

There was no time to ponder on the answer. 

“Do you know what the date is?” Glassman inquired, holding the urgency in his voice, but Jetfire continued to look puzzled, still wracking the wasteland of lost information—what was today? Or yesterday, for that matter? Everything else around him was hazy, as it was—how was he to know such minor details? Today, yesterday, tomorrow? What did it all mean?

Doctor Glassman accepted the silence as an answer. 

“Okay—it’s clear you don’t know. That’s alright, you’ll get there,” he offered the morsel of encouragement with a twinge of silent aggression. Jetfire, still in a fog, found the will to remain calm and composed—though it was perfectly visible to him, that subtle dominant energy Glassman so yearned to exude. 

Doctor Stone signaled for her colleague to pull off his gasmask—of which he did with caution—and the room fell again into silence. The two doctors excused themselves to wash their hands clean of the unpleasant germs and microbes they could have acquired in the time they interacted with the patient, and with the gaggle of doctors they’d shooed out of the room. They’d been on the outside—albeit briefly—and it would do no good to allow the potential for disease to grow. 

Jetfire found that he could hardly bear it, that oppressive silence. In that dreadful quietude, the blond could do little more than wait for it to be broken—come to find, it was such an intense feeling, in this moment, that he had to lie back to keep the strange room from seeming so big. The analog clock on the wall ticked endlessly through the silence. It loomed almost menacingly over one of the tall cabinets, and Jetfire could only stare as time ebbed away—suddenly haunted by the fact that there was a certain amount of time he managed to lose, when he was drifting in the sea of nothingness. How long had it been? A day? A week? A month? 

“You think he’ll do well to be put in the last room on the left?” Jetfire could vaguely hear Stone whisper to the dark haired herald. 

“It’s the only option we have at the moment.” Glassman answered, just as quietly. “The other rooms are full up. Better hope he isn’t too glib, especially when we give him his roommate,” 

“We should probably restrain him again. We don’t want another incident,” 

Jetfire’s body began to tense up. Such a strange thing to suggest. Such a strange thing to bring up, at that. But just what did she mean? What happened? Who was the victim of an awful fate? Who was the perpetrator? 

No more time to ask himself. There was a silent agreement that restraint was the best course of action—and in the moment they met their resolution, Stone found herself prancing over, gripped with a morbid sense of glee, whilst Glassman simply lumbered toward the bed, haunted by a wizened sense of routine. With haste, Jetfire’s arms and legs were bound, and he was sent into another panic—to which neither doctor paid any mind to, as they disconnected him from the tubes and machines put into him. 

“What are you doing…!?” he managed, straining his voice some—but no answer came. He was wheeled out of the room and taken down the hall. He fought to take a proper breath, watching as the ceiling tiles zipped by and melted into the past. And finally, finally he would arrive at that room, where it would all begin. He put up a fight against his restraints, only to find he couldn’t break through them. He was pushed through the threshold of the door, placed in a spot, and without another word, left to his own devices. 

“Please don’t go—!” he called after the doctors—only to be left on his own, anyhow. And there he remained, all on his own, forced to stare at the ceiling. His heart shuddered, left in a frightful daze as he tried to make sense of everything around him. The room was rather large—at least once he could walk, he would have space to move about—and there was a window he could clearly see out of, looking over the horizon. The sky was dark, descending quicker and quicker into the good and pure night, throwing away the notion of madness in the day. 

Suddenly the fluorescent light flicked totally off. And the only light Jetfire had was that of the sweet moonbeams. 

Footsteps. Jetfire was not alone. 

Hands undoing his restraints. Young hands, working fast. The only sight of this stranger’s face was a thin sliver of moonlight on amber skin. 

“I’m sorry,” the stranger whispered to Jetfire, “I was watching them. You must have been scared.” 

Jetfire was quiet. The stranger continued to speak. 

“They shouldn’t have treated you like that,” A blanket was pulled over Jetfire, gentle soft hands smoothing them out over his chest. 

“Who are you?” Jetfire’s voice was haunted with unease. The stranger paused. 

“Consider me a friend,” he answered, looking up at the door—and the light exposed his Tiger’s Eye orbs. There was little more talk, before the young man seemed to vanish into the dim hallway—and Jetfire, deeply confused and disoriented, was left to ponder on the identity of this stranger. 

He didn’t sleep a wink that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I'm sorry I took so long to get this chapter out. 
> 
> On May 7th, 2020, in the middle of a busy semester at college, I learned that my brother had been murdered. and since then, I've been mostly unable to function. This chapter is likely to be incredibly short, as I wanted to finish it and get it out, as to not keep anyone waiting. Updating will be spotty. But I'll try really hard to get this fic going;;; 
> 
> Thank you, to anyone who is following/keeping up with this. It means the world to me. I'll still try to update—I'm just still in the grieving period.

The sun rose once more, into the open arms of the lilac sky above. 

The recovery ward was trapped in an almost bitter silence. What was the day? He still had yet to figure it out. He had managed to spot another analog clock looming on the wall, and he dedicated time to watch as the delicate hands made their journey across the fragile face. Strangers often visited at odd hours—clad in their heavy gear and gas masks—and quietly worked. On what? Jetfire wouldn’t know. Each time they came, he was left in the throes of exhaustion—he could never quite place why it was only when they came, his body seemed to shut down, and force him into that nothingness. He would find that his counting of the rotations would be disrupted, each time. 

Always at night, when Jetfire should’ve been sleeping, that strange, helpful person would come. Few words would be exchanged—rather, they would be locked in a silent discussion, for lack of a better explanation—in the half hour or so that he would stay. Then, he would simply float away, as if he’d never happened, and he’d never come into that room to see the patient. Like a gentle phantom coming to comfort him. 

It was like clock work. It was a system Jetfire just so happened to live in. 

But how many times had the clock made full rotations? Jetfire counted four—but he lost such large chunks of time. How in the world would he know if it were right, if he spent so much time locked in a vast dreamscape, a sea of static in the netherworld of being? 

He was torn from these thoughts at the sound of a clamor of footsteps, of frustrated and surprised yelping, angry bellowing. Tearing his gaze from the clock, he found himself watching the door, bracing for another encounter with the strangers trying to do secret things. To his surprise, there came a new bed. A gaggle of doctors surrounding it, trying to hold down the subject occupying it. A new person?

“ _ I will  _ **_NOT_ ** _ share my room! _ ” this stranger’s caterwaul pierced the air, a rabid bullet looking for something to hit. “ _ Get  _ **_OFF OF ME!_ ** ” 

The giant with hair like starlight could only watch as they tried to subdue his fellow patient. He could hardly see his fellow patient through the gaggle of doctors trying to hold him down to thoroughly restrain him. Had his legs decided to work, he would have been up, trying to investigate. 

The doctors, however, were too animated for his liking. One of the doctors—some young, cocky man with an overinflated swagger of a walk—let out a shriek, and recoiled from the new patient. Part of his scrubs had been torn right off in the arm—and in his skin, there was suddenly a gaping hole, ragged around the edges, angrily bleeding. And laying in the bed, the patient snarled—a piece of skin still dangling from his teeth. Jetfire was forced to remain in his place, watching as the doctors doubled down on a livid Starscream, and strapped him to that bloody bed, with little word to what he was doing here, and if they were done with him—things Jetfire would have preferred to know, before they snuck in at strange hours to perform the mysterious procedures. 

They vanished with as much haste as they had coming in, never saying a word to poor Starscream—who could hardly lay still, even in those binds—in an attempt to escort their colleague away, to a much more beneficial atmosphere, into knowing hands that could fill that void. They left the little lion to writhe and moan and fidget, never explaining what purpose they had for putting him in that room. Jetfire could relate. 

“...Hey,” The giant made the first attempt to reach out—but this strange new person scoffed at him, and refused to even spare him a glance. Jetfire hesitated, gripped in uncertainty as he approached this impasse. After a moment of silence, he tried again. “You okay?” 

No response. 

Jetfire fidgeted some, watching as Starscream huffed and growled and made his fuss. What could he do to ease this man? He wouldn’t know. He cleared his throat, and began his attempt to get up, despite how he struggled to move his legs—up to this point, he managed to take his first steps, though his knees often buckled, or his legs locked up and sent him toppling to the floor in a heap. 

He hissed as his feet came in contact with the cold floor—he had not been afforded socks—and sat for a moment, quietly debating whether it would truly be worth it. But of course he would decide he had to—poor thing was a lion in a little body, left to wither away in his binds. He found himself on his feet, gripping his bed tightly for support. No locking up yet. He shuffled—well, more like hobbled—over to Starscream’s bed side, every so often glancing at the door. No one lurking in the hall, as far as he could see. His legs stiffened mid-step. He had to try and be quick. 

What a peculiar man, Starscream was. Jetfire observed him, almost baffled—someone this short couldn't have had that much power over that big a group. Starscream, not caring if he was being watched, spit out the piece of flesh between his teeth. 

“Who do they think they are, ganging up on me like that?” he growled to himself, and Jetfire, thoroughly concerned, kept something of a distance. “Of course I bit that slag…” 

“Hey,” Jetfire tried once more for his attention. But Starscream continued to focus on the wall. “Um...th-they shouldn’t have treated you like that,” he was hesitant to even reach out to free him of his binds. But he did, because surely the smaller man was uncomfortable, pinned like that. 

“Get away from me.” The raven haired man snapped, his voice rendered little more than a grumble in the back of his throat, an explosion itching to ignite. That threat of his roar still hung in the air. Jetfire took this command, and leaned more against his own bed, bracing himself for collapse, should his legs decide to give out. 

“I just wanted to help,” the giant attempted to defend himself, almost frightened at the idea that this stranger could and most certainly  _ would  _ sink his pearly whites into Jetfire’s pale flesh. 

Silence. The new person remained still for a moment, stewing in his own rage and confusion. Jetfire contemplated for a moment, as he braced himself further against his bed—toiling to find his own understanding of what had just happened. New man. New place. Same violence. Strange. 

He wouldn’t have much more time to contemplate. Footsteps coming down the long hall alerted him of incoming trouble, and he clambered back into bed, yanking his blanket over his body—only to carefully try and smooth it out—in an attempt to pretend he’d stayed perfectly in place, and allowed his roommate peace. Doctor Stone would enter the room, alone, wearing a small, friendly smile on her apricot lips. Her legs carried her into that room with purpose, her auburn tresses pulled into a tight, neat ponytail—sharp, refined, keen on completing her duties. 

Starscream, gripped by the riot in his soul, called out to her, in an attempt to force her to see his struggle. 

“Doctor,” he snapped, as soon as he saw her. But she breezed straight past his bed, eyes trained on Jetfire as he lay still, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t ignore me!  _ Hey! _ ” 

But she did. He remained an afterthought in the grand scheme of it all, a wannabe poltergeist that couldn’t even lift a piece of paper. No, Stone cared little for the raging russet eyed man—there was no reason to, really. She took to Jetfire’s side, that sweet smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” she greeted, “How ya doin’ today?” 

  
  
Jetfire merely watched her. The smile began to morph into puzzlement. She huffed, leaning back to take note. 

“Silent treatment, huh?” she gently teased. “Fair enough.” Another slightly tense silence fell over them all. She recorded each passing moment.

“When can I start to get up and walk on my own, Doctor…?” Jetfire asked after some time, if only to fill the tense, endless, opaque silence between them. Only the constant shifting in Starscream’s bed was audible. 

“Whenever you feel strong enough to,” she answered smoothly. “If you fall, just call for help. No shame in that,” 

The giant spared Starscream a glance, taking note that he’d mostly stopped shifting, a look of unadulterated indignance on his young face. He was left to count the cracks in the ceiling, likely the only stable thing he’d seen yet in his new state of consciousness. One of the few things Jetfire, himself, could even do; counting cracks, and counting clock rotations. Neither of which he seemed to be good at keeping up with. 

“You’ve been sleeping okay, I hope?” Stone asked of Jetfire, tearing his attention away from his roommate. The platinum blond gave a meek nod. Stone grinned. “Excellent,” More scribbling on her pad of paper. More silence. The sun still somehow remained on the horizon, as far as Jetfire could see. Or had he been hallucinating? 

“I think you should attend to my roommate,” Jetfire spoke up. “...He needs it more than I do.” 

“I’m not his doctor,” Stone answered, “Glassman’s got dibs on him.” 

Dibs? What an odd thing to say.

She set down her clipboard on the small bedside table. Her hands came to his face, earning a startled gasp. 

“Don’t be afraid. I’m checking your vitals. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve seen you,” she peered again into those eyes, checked his mouth—she had yet to see the situation in there, whether he had all his teeth or not—checked his ears. 

“How long has it been?” 

No answer. Her eyes, the same color as sand dunes at sunset, seemed to bore deep into his own summer sky hues. Her gaze burned right into his flesh, reading the embers of his soul in an attempt to understand him. 

“Why are you looking at me like that…?” Jetfire inquired, only for her to pull away. He couldn't quite tell the look on her face—strangely, she looked both entirely mystified and absolutely awestruck. 

“No need to worry,” she responded, finally, picking up her clipboard again. “Everything appears to be in order so far. Now,” she cleared her throat. “I have to ask you if there’s anything you remember,” 

There was a brief flash in Jetfire’s mind. 

_ Unbelievable sorrow. A face he didn’t know. A warm embrace, but no one was there.  _

“Hello?” she attempted to regain his focus, but his gaze was locked onto something far, far away—and in that moment, it was simply as if he'd drifted off.

_The chill of midnight in the dead of December. The speckled abyss of a borderless sky,_ illuminated _only by the moon and her beams of light._

“Did you remember something?” Stone gently brushed the hair from his face. Watery eyes, staring off into space. 

“Do I  _ really  _ have to listen to this?” Starscream snapped in his bed, listening to the drivel that came out of their mouths. “Either kill me or send me out, I can’t  _ TAKE _ THIS!” 

“Don’t make me gag you, S-187.” In a stark contrast to the noble demeanor, to the soft spoken facade she put on, Saccharine Doctor Stone’s voice hardened. 

“I thought you weren’t my doctor,” The little lion’s teasing voice scathed the air, a shit eating smirk having crossed his bloodied lips—revealing his teeth, still covered in the blood. “You don’t have the authority to gag me.” 

Stone narrowed her eyes—and she left Jetfire’s side again. 

As quickly as the memory flashed before his eyes, it receded back into the deep abyss of his mind. And suddenly, he had little recollection of anything. Upon returning to reality, he was greeted with the muffled protests of his roommate. 

He just so happened to look over, and he spotted Starscream, silenced by some strange device—some sort of mask. Some sort of muzzle, in fact—it was wrapped around his head snugly, locked into place, in such a way that even if he were free, he wouldn't be able to remove it on his own. 

“No need to strain yourself,” she crooned at him, almost mocking, “No need at all. All this yelling is pointless—it’ll get you nowhere, S-187,”

The protesting grew more frenzied, muffled as his jaw had been clamped shut. 

Gallant Doctor Glassman would then appear again in the doorway, as if on cue in the grand stage-play of life. His face was stricken with an indignance mirroring Starscream’s, poisonous green eyes fixed immediately on the willful little lout that caused so much of a problem, within not even twenty minutes of waking. 

“Took you long enough.” Doctor Stone playfully chided, the corners of her lips pulling into a bit of a side smile. “How rude. Especially when  _ your _ patient is the one acting up.” 

“I had stitches to apply,” The low grumble of Glassman’s voice grew in intensity, like a quietly waiting explosion, “Because someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut.” He approached the bed. Starscream, of course, didn’t quite like this—and he fought against his restraints again. 

“How many?” Stone asked, a smug smirk having crawled onto her lips. Glassman didn’t seem ready to answer. Instead, he pulled the curtain, and separated the two patients. No need for Jetfire to see what he was prepared to do, should it come right down to it. 

Jetfire, of course, became quite curious upon being denied the view—not to mention somewhat anxious.

“Don’t _you_ give me the silent treatment, too, Warren. I _deserve_ to know,” 

“Five.”

“ _Five_ stitches! For a  _ bite _ !” her roaring laughter filled the room, “ _ My  _ patient didn’t do anything of the sort!”

“He broke my nose, _Elizabeth_.” his voice was dripping in venom, just saying her name. 

“But you didn’t require  _ surgery _ or  _ stitches _ !” her high pitched, frenzied giggling filled the air, heartful and from the diaphragm. Glassman, in response, scoffed at her. With a disapproving grunt, he shoved her from the shuddered area—and Stone, her whole body quaking under the force of her immeasurable mirth, responded with a taunt. “Good luck with the biter!” 

Other than her ferocious giggles, the room was filled with an uneasy silence. Jetfire, consumed by his own confusion, could only watch in a stupefied daze as she kept giggling at her own victory, no matter how small it may be. Victory over what? The question nagged at Jetfire incessantly. 

Stone would approach again, unapologetic in the crass, shameless expression of her pride. 

“I apologize for stepping away,” she flashed her wide smile at him, tucking stray pieces of hair behind her ear in an attempt to regain her own composure. Her topaz eyes glinted with secret, unidentifiable things. The things she didn’t say, the signs that hung aloft Jetfire’s head, it was all yet to be seen still—and somehow, he was plagued with the haunting thought;  _ something isn’t right.  _ “It was rude of him to interrupt our conversation, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t mind,” Jetfire’s soft voice seemed almost riddled in uncertainty, “He just seemed really...anxious. I don’t particularly think that was really necessary.” 

Her face dropped, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. But Jetfire was unaffected. Why silence the call of hell when its flames cackle in the pit of one’s soul? The question rang forever in his head—like all other questions, glinting like stars in the otherwise empty night sky. 

Stone’s brows lowered, then, in a moment of contemplation, and she exhaled a nasal sigh—what was she to say to that?—as she took further notes on her precious subject.  Another tense moment of silence passed, and Jetfire, gripped by a general unease, began to shift in his bed. When she finished, she looked up again. There was a soft clattering in the shuttered off area—and faintly, Jetfire could hear some protests, some struggle. 

“You’ve been cooped up in this room for long enough, Sunshine,” Stone’s melodious voice suddenly rose over the wild uproar of tools as Glassman went straight to work on the wildfire that inhabited the same room as Jetfire. “Why don’t we get you outside for some fresh air?”

No time for protests, or the slow paced droolings of his somewhat-groggy speech—perhaps he’d been drugged up to deal with pain?—as she had already taken to his side, wheelchair ready to transport him. Perhaps he could even take a brisk walk on the veranda, under that bright, unchanging lilac sky. 

The next thing Jetfire knew, he was outdoors, seated in his wheelchair. On his right side sat a wizened tree, with branches reaching for the golden rays of hope in a boundless, soft violet sea. The wind swayed its branches, gently sent the leaves afloat on the breeze, in search of greater lands. But of course, they didn’t make it far. That tree—for whatever reason, he had the instinct to try and think of a name for her (yes, it was a her)—was bent and gnarled, hunched over in an attempt to force a sob—though of course, her cries were silent. 

Jetfire could see his window from his seat by that grand old tree. And he watched, with an even grander curiosity, to see if the little lion was okay on his own in that room, with the bespectacled man. From what Jetfire could see, Starscream, S-187, whatever he was to be called—he was out cold in his bed. No movement. No biting as he had, no fidgeting as far as he could see.

Silence under a twilight sky. Stranded beneath the grand weeping tree, he sat. Waiting. Gathering the courage to try and walk about again. 

The courtyard was expansive. He sat in a spot that oversaw everything, only obscured by the dainty little low hanging leaves off of the tree. And in the sky, that brilliant lilac sky, the moon was still somewhat visible, her silhouette barely shining through the sun's glorious rays of light. Barely any clouds in the sky. Utter peace. 

Until there was none. 

“Nice day, huh?” a foreign voice called from some other direction—and Jetfire, having been utterly bamboozled upon the arrival of this new person, wildly looked around. 

“Hello?” He attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. 

“Right here, big guy,” the joking voice was somehow much closer—and Jetfire, hesitant, turned to face this new person, crouched next to his wheelchair. A new pair of almost glowing gunmetal blue eyes, staring right at him. The blond giant would’ve let out a startled scream—but no. Not a peep would permeate his dry, chapped lips in response. His whole body tensed up, and seemed to lock into place for a brief moment. 

“Hey, hey, no worries. I don’t bite,” a slight, almost mischievous chuckle slipped through the fool's lips. “...Much.” his low baritone rang pleasingly in the silence of morning in Soledad—and he took a step away from Jetfire. 

There was a wave of relief that washed over Jetfire as soon as he was afforded space. He took a moment to breathe, calm the feeling in his chest, and come back from the brink of terror. But he kept his gaze locked on the man, even as he began to regain his own autonomy, and take control of his fear again. 

“Just woke up, I take it? Don’t worry. You’ll walk again. It just takes some time.” the stranger explained—the only real explanation he received throughout the whole ordeal, disappointingly. How strange a notion it was! A stranger—another  _ patient _ no less, would be the most helpful out of all the doctors he caught a mere glimpse of! 

“You know, that’s...probably the most useful thing anyone’s told me since I woke up,” Jetfire let a nervous laugh permeate his lips. Awkward silence. 

Not for long, though. 

“How long have you been here?” Wheeljack asked, as if he hadn’t somehow just materialized beside the gentle giant, and nearly took his breath away. “Not long I take it? I, myself, have been here about a month, I think. Date’s still fuzzy to me.” he shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyeing the wheelchair-bound man in curiosity. This was of no comfort to poor Jetfire. He kept glancing back at his room of residency—only to find, the curtain over the window had been drawn. And the little lion was no longer visible, much to the gentle giant's discontent.

“Um...I don’t know how long I’ve been here,” he kept watching that window in desperation. _Please open up again._ He began to wring his pale hands in fear. The sound of those tools—they rang forever in his head. The sound of those protests, the prospect of feeling that desperation to fight back. He could still faintly hear the whirring of some kind of saw, or what have you, as if it were right next to him again. He could almost feel it. _I just want to see if he's alright._

“Well—don’t worry. It’s gonna be okay. I take it you can’t remember anything,” Wheeljack's voice pulled him from those troublesome thoughts, attempting to pick what he assumed was dirt from beneath his nails. “Hate to break it to you, but you may not get a lot of memories back. I’ve been here a while, and I can’t even remember my name.”

“That’s concerning,” Jetfire ceased his hand wringing, immediately despising the stinging friction of his skin, only to end up picking pieces of lint out of the fabric of his hospital gown. “But...why are you telling me this?” his raspy voice, rough from only just awakening, almost came out a whisper. 

“‘Cause you’re probably a newbie. Welcome to the club,” That pleasing baritone hum in his voice resounded in the quiet of that moment. And then he noticed that troubled, far away look. He proceeded to turn his attention to the medical building, as well—squinting in an attempt to try and see what he saw. “...What are you looking at?” 

No indication of change. The curtains, white as driven snow, didn't move in the slightest. 

“My roommate…” he struggled to get the words out, vaguely remembering the fight he put up to try and get out of the room—the way he bit that poor young doctor. “He seemed really distressed. But my doctor took me out for fresh air, so I didn’t get to see if he was okay.” 

Wheeljack clicked his tongue in thought, as he watched that window. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, face scrunched a bit as if contemplating what to say. Several seconds passed as he tried to put together his thoughts. Really, it was odd that someone would come to care for their roommate so quickly. But it wasn't exactly his business, now, was it?

“Bummer. I’m sure you’ll see him again, soon, dude.” His eyes scanned the courtyard, then, his attention having been diverted from the brick medical wing of the vast campus. “The recovered people are given a place to sleep, y’know. You should be getting a new room in the dorms.” A simple gesture, and then suddenly, Jetfire could only focus on another building across the courtyard. 

“Is that the place…?” he would inquire—almost surprised to see such an unassuming residence, almost towering over the other wings of the campus with an eerie disposition. Victorian New York in style, almost—the color of cherries in June, with a multitude of levels and windows. 

“Yep. It’s actually pretty nice—pretty spacious apartments. It’s only temporary, though, until they can find where we’re all supposed to be.” The shorter of the two leaned against the grand old tree, heaving a soft sigh.  They seemed to slip into a comfortable silence, watching the sun as it rose higher to its perch in the sky, and the lilac began to fade into a soft, gentle blue. Peace again, even when they didn't know their own names. 

“So…” Jetfire, lulled into a sense of ease—the cool mornings of early spring, the light glinting off of damp leaves, the smell of rain became a sweet elixir for tranquility—found his mind drifting to different, far off avenues. 

Haunted still by the lazy intrigue, Wheeljack’s eyes shifted to Jetfire again, as if urging him to go on. The man with starlight hair continued, still picking lint from his hospital gown. 

“If you don’t know your name, then...how do they refer to you?” his voice slowly began to gain strength, as the rough, raspy qualities of waking up began to fade.

An interested hum left the smaller of the two, another grin crossing his thin lips. 

“They gave everyone names like...I don’t fuckin’ know. M-370, for example. Or R-985.” He shifted his weight off the weeping tree, trying to find a more comfortable stance. “It’s stupid. It wouldn’t kill them to at least make up names for us in the meantime. Dunno if they'll ever let us choose our own names, but they should.” 

Strange. Really, _very_ strange, it was. Jetfire, try as he might, couldn’t find a  _ single _ reason not to _at least_ assign pseudonyms. His brows knit together in confusion, suddenly incredibly fascinated by the very prospect of having no memory, and still receiving no true name. He couldn’t say he was fond of such a thing—immediately, being nameless registered itself as something acutely painful, to be perfectly frank—and yet, he couldn’t help but sympathize with their awkward position. It was inexplicable, to be perfectly honest. 

“Ooh, damn. Looks like chat time is over for now.” Wheeljack hissed softly, quite aware of the doctor that trotted toward them, filled with a quiet sense of authority. “I’ll see ya later, ‘kay, big guy? Take care,” 

With that, he vanished, as if a ghost, a candle in the wind. 

“Wait—” he tried to call out. But the sneaky man was gone. And without a word from this new doctor, he was wheeled back into the medical building. 

Back into Soledad. Back into the abyss. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so howdy y'all. I know this thing took like, forever but here ya go. I hope you enjoy, and I hope it's not too shitty
> 
> BTW! My birthday is on the 29th this month!! I'm gonna be 19! >w< I'll try to update sometime around then but it's,,,somewhat doubtful @w@;;;;

The friendly nighttime stranger stopped visiting. 

How long had it been since Jetfire had seen him? He wasn’t quite certain. All he knew was, he no longer lingered by the foot of his bed, nor had Jetfire been afforded the comfort in knowing that yes—someone cared enough to free his binds and see to it that he found peace in the frightful night. Perhaps it had been the arrival of the little wildfire of a roommate—Starscream had more than proven that he did  _ not  _ enjoy the current situation, and he certainly wouldn’t let it be complicated further. Perhaps he was just a hallucination, and Jetfire was already losing his mind. 

But the stranger couldn’t have been a hallucination, could he? He rested the blanket over him that first night. He saw those eyes. He peered into them, in their quiet conversations, spoke in hushed voices when no one else was around. 

_ Who exactly are you? _ The question always hung on the edge of his lips, in anticipation of his return,  _ Why are you here? _ The question burned forever in his mind. He couldn’t figure out whether it was good or not that he may have been just a hopeless figment of his imagination. 

“Hey there, big guy,” that smooth, playful voice came again from the doorway of the mostly empty common room, and effectively shattered the silence. 

“Oh!” Jetfire finally looked up, only to wince at the stiffness of his neck. “Hello. You startled me a little,” a soft titter escaped his lips. 

“Sorry—did I interrupt your reading?” The shorter of the two approached, pulling up a seat beside him at the table. 

Oh. So he was supposed to be reading. Almost confused, the platinum haired giant looked at the book again, at the third page, at the line that, for whatever reason, resonated deeply. 

_ You had to live—did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every moment scrutinized. _

“1984, huh? Classic,” A small smile tugged at Wheeljack’s lips, having peeked at the mostly white cover in a half-assed attempt to snoop on his friend. 

No more reading for now, Jetfire assumed. He closed the book, gaze immediately locked on the single ocean-colored iris on the cover. He hesitated for a moment—only to grab a scrap piece of paper left on the mahogany table-top and slide it between the second and third pages. 

“It looked familiar. So, I decided to try and read it. Got too distracted, I guess.” 

“I’ll say. You were in the same position for a while.” 

An embarrassed flush touched Jetfire’s pale face, and he proceeded once more to titter out of nervousness, unable to even cast a glance to Wheeljack.  _ Stupid. _ He berated himself.  _ Why can’t you focus? _

“Y-you were watching me, then…?” the giant ran his fingers over the spine of the book, feeling every little divet of the title and author name lettering. Wheeljack, more or less content in the idea of complacency, leaned back in his chair. 

“Nah. I checked on you like, twenty minutes ago or so, and when I came back, you were in the same exact position. I was worried you’d lost consciousness, or something.” 

_ Oh. _

“Not to be rude, but...do you need anything?” The taller of the two inquired, gingerly setting the book down in his lap. “You just seemed to address me, specifically. I can’t imagine you came in just to read with me.” 

“ _ Pfft _ ! Reading’s for  _ nerds _ ,” The joking tone was much welcome, given the troubles that brewed in the pit of his soul.  _ He’s not real,  _ Jetfire had to remind himself, even as Wheeljack kept speaking.  _ You were dreaming. He can’t be real.  _ He couldn’t help being sucked right back into those thoughts as Wheeljack continued to talk about something or other—only to be brought back to reality by a light flick on his nose. He recoiled slightly at the sudden intrusion of his personal space. 

“You in there?” Wheeljack teased. “Did you hear  _ anything _ I said?” 

Shit. 

“Sorry…” Jetfire couldn’t help the guilt that ballooned in his chest—and the corners of his mouth tugged into something of a soft rueful frown. The shorter of the two crossed his arms, upon seeing this.

“I was just teasing—don’t sweat it so much.” His voice hadn’t particularly softened—but there was still the twinge of sympathy, regardless. “To repeat what I said, I figured you’d want some help getting to P.T. So I’m chillin’ until you’re ready to go,” 

“Oh—you don’t have to do that. I don’t wanna trouble you,” Fidgeting still with the book in his hands, he pushed away those vexatious thoughts—it was bad energy, it was, and he wanted  _ nothing  _ to do with it—in an attempt to claim the current moment. He would slowly rise himself out of his seat, hissing at the way his legs seemed to creak and crack under his weight. Even so—this was better than being bound to a wheelchair. 

“You look like you’re gonna topple over. Lemme help,” Without another word, Wheeljack was on his feet as well, spry as a spring chicken, and snaking an arm around the gentle giant’s waist. “C’mon, we should probably get over to the gym.”

The gym. Jetfire hated the gym. It was just a big linoleum box, filled with dirty, dusty air and though it was spacious, it was  _ cramped  _ by the sheer amount of It did not compare to the feeling of being outside, in the cool twilight of early spring, watching the sun rise. It did not compare to being near the grand old tree. If there was an elixir to all ailments in life, if there were a cure for all troubles, it would be the feel of the grass on the soles of your feet and the view of a golden sunset—not the musty smell of rubber or rusting iron. He was nagged by those thoughts as they traversed the halls, in silence, for the most part. 

“So, your roommate,” Wheeljack would begin, shattering their silence. “How do you deal with him?”

“How do you mean?” Bold of Wheeljack to assume that Jetfire really  _ dealt _ with Starscream—it was better, at this point in time, to leave him be, to be honest—and his behavior. 

“The kid’s insane—I don’t get how you’re okay with him being your roommate,” The sunkissed blonde craned his neck to look up at the giant as he stumbled alone, trying to keep his balance. “I talked to him in the common room once—the kid almost broke my arm because I wouldn’t hand over something he wanted.” 

“Oh...I’m sorry he did that,” The silver haired man couldn’t help but imagine the rabid little man trying to fight the sneaky man beside him. And frankly, it earned a little chuckle. “We don’t have a whole lot of conversation. I think he’s actually mad at me because of our situation.” 

“Didn’t you tell me he bit a chunk of flesh out of one of the doctors trying to restrain him?” 

There was a moment in which that memory sprang to mind. The sight of that gaping wound, the way he caterwauled and called on the hell cackling inside him to get his way. The bloodied smile as he taunted Dr. Stone. 

"I think I did,” he responded, eyes focused on the floor. All he could hope to do was count the number of footsteps they took to reach their destination.  _ 1, 2, 3, 4. _

“Not gonna lie—I kind of respect that amount of dedication.” There was a moment of pause.  _ 17, 18, 19, 20.  _ “But that must be a pain to deal with.” 

“I actually don’t mind much,”  _ 43, 44, 45. _ “I enjoy his company. We don’t talk a lot, but when we do, he’s not that bad.” 

“Whatever you say, dude,” Silence again. Jetfire kept counting.  _ 69, 70.  _ He couldn’t help being somewhat dissatisfied—he hadn’t started counting until almost the tail end of their walk. No matter. He continued with the endeavor. 

It’s sparsely populated when they finally arrive. The gym was large, plenty of room for plenty of patients to exercise as they deemed necessary. Only one doctor had been present for the therapy at that point. Three other patients—including Starscream—biding their time, waiting for it all to begin. 

“Damn. You’d think there’d be more people here.” Wheeljack whistled in slight awe at the sheer  _ lack  _ of people.  _ 98, 99, 100.  _ “Oh, well. We’re a little early, anyway. I’m sure more people will come.” 

“I’m sure…” The platinum blond shifted his weight from foot to foot. His mind wandered, still—always searching for old memories, only to come up empty handed. Nothing except memory of that cold night, of the unfathomable level of sorrow he experienced over something he couldn’t recall. The death of a friend? The loss of something important? He hadn’t the foggiest idea. 

“...They were trying to pin me down. I didn’t like that, so I bit a hole in the guy’s arm,” Starscream’s voice, the untouched baritone seemed somehow more calm in that moment—no scathing of the air, no shit eating smirk. Just the matter-of-fact tone. 

Strange, how he could be so proud. Peculiar, that he could smile and be nonchalant about tearing flesh asunder with only your mouth. He both despised and admired that amount of mental fortitude. He could do that while angry—what could he do when particularly frightened for his life? How far would he go? What was he willing to do to get his own way?  _ 115, 116, 117, 118.  _ The thought of that chaos did little to appease Jetfire’s own apprehension. 

Wheeljack was quick to bring Jetfire to a seat, if only to liberate himself from the labor it required to lug the gigantic man about.  _ Phew.  _ Peace for a moment. For the most part, the gym was quiet—save for the conversation Starscream appeared to be having with the other two patients. It felt like forever, as they waited for whoever they were to wait for. He fidgeted some, just biding his time. 

He looked about the room. At the fluorescent lighting hanging still from the ceiling, at the linoleum floor and the machines and stations that awaited them. For whatever reason, he couldn’t help feeling a tingling, uncomfortable sensation beneath his skin. He stiffened, almost tempted to scratch the itching, tingling feeling all over—but he stayed mostly still. He briefly watched the doctor overseeing them, in an attempt to understand who he was dealing with. Was the man staying for physical therapy? Would he be Jetfire’s doctor? Would he be the replacement of that moonlight stranger, drifting into his room in the dead of night? 

“Yo, Big Guy,” Wheeljack’s voice pulled him back from the depths of his mind again. “You okay? You’ve been really spacey today.” 

“Oh...Yes, I’m okay. I’m sorry—I’ve had a number of things to think about.” 

Wheeljack gave an understanding nod, leaning against the wall beside the giant of a man. 

“I get it, dude. But I’ve been talking to you for like ten minutes, and when I looked over at you, you were just staring off into space.” A chuckle exited his lips. “It’s no biggie, I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

Jetfire couldn’t help nibbling his lip somewhat in response. He supposed it would’ve been wise to get a grip—just stop thinking. Focus on the now, on the environment, the changes in setting. Take it a moment at a time, if only so he could be more engaging. 

“I’m okay, I promise. It’s just been sort of difficult, not remembering anything and being cooped up here,” The platinum blond paused, for a moment. “...Hey. You haven’t happened to remember anything, yourself, have you?” The same flash of memory came to Jetfire. The moonlight. The cold of the night in the dead of December, a face he didn’t know. How he  _ felt. _ His only memory, so far. 

“Can’t say I have,” The shorter of the two heaved a sigh, “Like I’ve said—I can’t remember my own name,” 

_ Huh, _ Jetfire thought.  _ I guess I just got lucky.  _

“Before I forget,” Wheeljack captured his attention before he could drift off again into the recesses of thought, “Where’d you get the book you were reading? I couldn’t find any other copies of it in the common room,” 

Were there supposed to be other copies? Jetfire furrowed his brows in thought, in a meager attempt to recall where he’d procured the item—yet each time he came up with a hint, it always became dust in the wind. Had he found it in the common room? Had he had it at the time of whatever accident left him amnesiatic? No, none of that seemed right. Frankly, one central truth had remained, and that was, he’d simply woken up to it sitting quietly on the little table beside his bed, with a small note attached, reading:

_ I thought you’d enjoy a good read.  _

_ -Emil _

_ P.S.—Do whatever you can not to get caught with it. _

“I think someone may have left it for me,” he answered, voice low. For whatever reason, he didn’t quite feel comfortable talking at mid-level volume. Whether it was just a sixth sense, or some level of an acute shyness, didn’t matter—something told him not to be too loud about it.

“Who would’ve left you the book, though?” Wheeljack raised a brow. “You haven’t had any visitors, have you?” 

“Not that I know of…” Jetfire glanced about, still. He found himself watching Starscream again, as he spoke with the two strangers. He couldn’t help but be somewhat awestruck at the way he flawlessly seemed to draw them in, the way he engaged their attention and impressed them, even with such a fiery, somewhat violent personality. 

His roommate was no fool, he reckoned. In the few conversations they’ve had, several things had become apparent; one, that he was definitely  _ not _ as young as he looked—the way he spoke, the way he carried himself made that much clear—and two, that he was sharp like a razor, never quite the quietest when expressing his thoughts, never quite the gentlest when telling the truth. It was almost admirable, the lengths he’d go to achieve his own agenda. 

“Maybe your doctor gifted it to you?” Wheeljack hypothesized, “I doubt they’ve been letting just anyone in. I heard that there was an outbreak of some kind of disease outside the facility,” 

Jetfire made a face. Oh...Doctor Stone. How he dreaded the moments leading up to her arrival. The clicking of her heeled shoes on the linoleum, and the ticking of the clock. Her humming—Jetfire could barely handle the anticipation. But there was no way she’d left it. That couldn’t be it.

“I don’t think Dr. Stone gave it to me,” Jetfire swallowed a bit, tearing his gaze from Starscream. There was nothing really that titillating about the idea of being caught looking—the notion that the smaller man was even on the  _ verge  _ of losing his temper almost instilled a slight feeling of anxiousness. “Neither she nor Glassman seem the type to gift things to their patients,” 

“You never know, though. Didn’t you tell me she was really nice to you?” 

There was a flash of memory, from the morning he spent under that lilac sky. Strange how nice she could be, then turn around and do something as cruel as muzzling another person. He had to give her credit—though he didn’t laugh at the time, it was almost hysterical how quickly she changed her tune. 

“Yeah. She’s pretty nice to me, but I assume she’s nice to all of her patients,” 

Those pretty gunmetal eyes locked with Jetfire’s. There was a brief pause. 

“You should be careful of your perception,” Wheeljack warned, in an eerie, uncharacteristically serious tone of voice. “A buddy of mine told me she doesn’t tolerate disrespect. Of any kind. As nice as she is now, you need to do whatever you can to fly under the radar.” 

_ Hard to do when she’s my doctor, _ Jetfire couldn’t help the hostile, inward grumble. It wasn’t exactly  _ easy  _ to hear that his doctor was possibly  _ dangerous _ , especially given the amount of trust he’d been expected to put into her. 

“Considering she’s muzzled my roommate before, I’m not very surprised,” he answered, sighing softly. “I’m grateful, though, that I don’t have Glassman. When I woke up from my coma, I-I got scared. And I accidentally broke his nose, I think.” 

Silence from Wheeljack. Then a smirk. Then a soft chuckle, which turned into giggling. 

“Dude, no way. You broke that creepy fuck’s nose?” The man snorted quietly, looking away to try and quell his laughter, only to fail miserably. “I’m so proud of you,”

“It was an accident,” The words tumbled from Jetfire’s mouth in an attempt to downplay the event. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be so coy,” Wheeljack’s low, teasing voice was of no comfort.  _ 200, 201, 202. Was that right? _ “Don’t feel so bad, either. I heard he’s done some shady shit, and honestly, I’m almost positive he kinda deserved it, especially since you aren’t usually the violent type. Let’s just hope Glassman doesn’t overhear us,” 

Speak of the  **_fucking_ ** devil. It was then, and only then that Doctor Glassman would come swaggering through the doorway, endowed with the unbearably noticeable sense of self pride. A stoic man, regardless, he kept a straight face, even as he led a number of students, still clad in their gas masks and scrubs. No apparent need to wear it out in the country, on a campus with superior disinfectant chambers—but you could never be too safe. 

“You can go now,” his commanding voice was rendered quiet, only for the supervising doctor—who gave an obedient, subservient nod and trotted off elsewhere, for some other reason. With that out of the way, Doctor Glassman would turn to his charges. “I trust you all know what to do with the patients today. Remember, this is a learning experience—I will be supervising you as you work with them. Now is the time to ask questions, if you have any,” 

Alas, silence among the small group, and for what felt like a long time. A small, somewhat cavalier smirk crawled onto his chapped lips, and he adjusted his glasses. 

“Excellent. Hang your masks and get to work, then,” 

And off they went. Just like that. It was quick enough, honestly—within minutes each patient was paired with a doctor.

Now, Wheeljack had never exactly had a hard time interacting with people. It was all he lived to do, really—make friends and have a good time. He never struggled to make a friend, never left wanting. But then his doctor approached—and he was at a loss of words. 

He was about Wheeljack’s height, with hair like fire, piercing eyes blue like morning glories in full bloom. There were slight smile lines bracketing his mouth. Strange for an angel not to smile.

“Hello—My name is Ratchet. I’ll be your doctor for today,” the deep, almost raspy baritone of his voice pulled Wheeljack from his stupor. The blond coughed, flustered, as he attempted to regain his composure—but the expectant look, the air that screamed,  _ Please be sensible, _ seemed to throw him off further. 

“Hello there, Doctor,” Wheeljack offered a friendly grin, once he managed to quell the intrigue he felt. “Nice name ya got. Wish I had one,” he joked—and Ratchet, as dour as he often was, couldn’t help but crack the tiniest amused smile. Wheeljack could swear his heart would leap right out of its chest, if he saw another smile like that.

“You’ll get a name by the time you move to the dorms,” the doctor in training gestured for the strange man to follow, his smile disappearing as soon as it came, “Let’s go,” with that, he led the man over to another area. Glassman would patrol the grounds of the gym, face still stoic, scrutinizing, never offering a moment of privacy as he watched the doctors in training perform their duties. And Jetfire, sweet Jetfire couldn’t help constantly glancing over at the man as he sauntered about. 

His nose. It was crooked from the break. Or had it been crooked before? Jetfire couldn’t help the guilt eating away at him. Had Glassman noticed him? He had to have—you don’t exactly miss a giant. Did he hold a grudge? Did he watch him with the same indignance he held for the little lion of a roommate Jetfire had? These thoughts were so compelling, so worrying that Jetfire hadn’t even taken notice of his doctor attempting to get his attention. 

The giant finally looked down. The doctor in question had the most somber, most stoic look on his face, as if he were mimicking the expressions of his mentor. His amber eyes gleamed almost menacingly under the fluorescent lighting as he craned his neck to see the giant’s face. To see what he’d been dealing with. To see if he were dealing with a blind, deaf, and dumb cripple.    
  
“Are you listening?” he asked, a harsh bitterness having taken root in his voice. “Do I need to call up a psychiatrist—?” 

“Tread carefully, Hook,” Glassman’s condescending voice rose over the sound of machines, from several feet away. Hook heaved a nasal sigh, pursing his lips, and turned his attention to his superior—he attempted to maintain some level of professionality in doing so—and everything about the supervisor screamed,  _ Don’t push it. _

The doctor referred to as Hook, in his tiny glory, relaxed the hostile stance he took. 

“According to your records,” he began, voice clear, though still laced with trace amounts of hostility hidden behind a feux civility, “You’ve been having trouble regaining your ability to walk following your awakening. Is that true?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jetfire answered, in his low, gentle tone of voice. “I can sort of walk, but I still need some support,” 

“Considering you’re somewhat top-heavy, I’m not really that shocked,” His voice was plain, smooth, at least somewhat easing into pleasantry. Jetfire paused, almost taken aback at the bluntness in his approach. “We can work out a more effective plan, for sure. At least you’re not in that wheelchair anymore.” 

“U-um...Okay—?”

“Now, listen. Leg weakness isn’t uncommon, considering you’ve only just regained use of your legs within the last month. It also doesn’t help that you’re easy to topple over, since you’re so top heavy.” 

Was he supposed to feel insulted? Somehow, Jetfire got the vague feeling that Hook was just being catty. Or perhaps just brutally honest? The dark haired doctor—come to think of it, he was the only doctor in training with dark hair, so far—tested the giant’s reflexes. All normal. The rest of the physical therapy session was relatively quiet—save for the sound of the little wildfire chatting up his doctor, who seemed more than happy to indulge him, and the sound of the machines. Wheeljack, as he stretched, sprinted, even  _ danced _ some, held a consistent faraway look on his face. Ratchet, somehow, seemed none the wiser—a good thing, probably. 

P.T. Ended on a good note, with his anxieties quelled. Glassman had mostly avoided Hook and his patient, and Jetfire lost track of the anxious counting. He could start again on the journey back, with more purpose, and let the past fears rest as he tried to calculate the amount of steps it took to get from that blasted linoleum box back to the common room. What more was there to do, after all, other than read or count, or other menial things? 

It was still a quiet walk back. Even with Wheeljack stewing beside him over something or other, even with the way he burned inside over the handsome doctor, the air remained calm. 

In the past month, up to this point, that wasn’t exactly a common occurrence—the calm air, the pleasant quiet. The fact it’s happened twice in one day counted as some sort of phenomenon, in fact, as Wheeljack’s presence promised only chaos. Not to mention the animation of the hospital, how it always was having people come and go. Peace was hardly an option, or so it seemed—and Jetfire’s resolution was to find his own, in that common room. In his books. In the familiar night sky he yearned to see again. In the mysteries surrounding life, now.

But of course, it would be broken. 

“Oi,” the commanding voice of Jetfire’s fledgling of a roommate shattered the silence into pieces. “Big guy!” 

Jetfire stopped walking, still part-way trapped in the labyrinth of consciousness, attempting to gather all information he knew up to this point: Woke up, living in a hospital, no memory. A strange night time friend, who was potentially a hallucination—

“ _ Oi! _ Don’t ignore me!” the rabid gremlin of a man huffed, craning his neck to get a better look at the giant. “I need to talk to you,” 

“T-to me?” 

“Yeah. You read a lot, right?” he inquired, “You often go to the common room, so I figured you did.” 

“Yeah?” The giant’s brows knitted together, eyeing the tiny man warily. The russet-eyed man could see the emotion in his eyes clear as day, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Do you know if any good scientific books are in the common room?” There was something about his voice, about the way he spoke and made  _ sure _ he was heard. It was an admirable trait. Truly. 

“I think there might be…? I haven’t checked,” 

“Help me find one,” Starscream commanded, exuding a dominant, alpha energy that Jetfire had never quite seen before. His heart lurched. 

“Any particular type of science book you want?” Jetfire inquired, “Textbook? Science fiction?” 

“Textbooks are preferable. Any science will do,” he answered, perhaps a tad too quickly—almost spoken as one word.  _ Any-science-will-do _ . “I’ve decided I want to explore all science types as much as possible.” 

“You probably won’t have a lot of luck finding sciencey books in the common room,” Wheeljack interjected—having finally broken from his trance over the older redhead who handled him. “You’d have more luck going to the library. But we’re not allowed to go until we’re cleared to move into the dorms.” 

Starscream, suddenly intrigued, turned to the only-slightly-taller man. 

“...We’re only not allowed if we’re caught,” the little rule breaker answered, only to elicit a wide grin. “I need some books to read, so I’m going,” 

“I’m coming too—” he hushed his voice, in an effort to conceal his intent from any potentially listening doctors or nurses or what have you. “We should figure out a plan. Away from prying ears,” 

An escape. A  _ spontaneous _ escape, at that. The gentle giant couldn’t help watching them so eagerly converse—only to find himself subconsciously shuffling away, as he remembered the book he’d been gifted. 

But of course, this was noticed. And both sets of eyes were on him.

“You in, Big Guy?” 

A moment passed. The giant was frozen in place. They watched, expectantly, as if silently urging him to agree. Jetfire heaved a soft sigh. 

“Okay...I guess I’ll join you,” 

——————

To say security in the hospital was piss poor would be a gross understatement. You’d think that, being a hospital, there’d be more guards, more people to keep the order. Come to find there were few. A grave oversight on their part, especially with the two troublemakers and their mild-mannered companion. 

The escape was rather simple, to be honest. It took a ridiculously low amount of effort. 

“Please hurry!” Jetfire urged, a twinge of desperation having filled his low voice. He could see Starscream’s little leg dangling from the windowsill. This had to be dangerous, and the gentle giant was  _ not here for it. _

“ _ It’s a long drop! _ ” The raging little star’s tremendous bark left his mouth before he could think. With a short string of curses, he swung the other leg over the ledge, eying the ground with a blazing resentment. He turned to his partner in crime. “You need to be quick, okay?”

“I got you, dude. I’ll join you in a sec.” The flaxen haired man offered him a thumbs up—to which he earned the tiniest smirk. Little rabble-rouser. 

With that, he pushed off, falling to what likely should’ve been his doom—only to land in Jetfire’s outstretched arms. To both of their surprise, they managed to remain undamaged and upright; the giant hadn’t toppled over, nor had he dropped his dedicated friend to the hard ground. For a brief moment, there was wonderment on their faces, as though unsure of what happened—only to lock gazes. Comfort, in that moment. Starscream offered a small smile, to which Jetfire reciprocated. He set the other down, gently straightened the scarlet t-shirt provided so generously by the hospital, and looked up.

“Isn’t this fun?” The smaller of the two asked, voice rendered a prideful purr.

“It’s...a bit nerve wracking,” The giant pushed back the hoary strands of hair getting in his face.

“You’ll have fun,” Starscream asserted, “I promise.”

Suddenly, Jetfire could see Wheeljack’s head poke out of the window, gun-metal blue eyes scanning them both, in an attempt to gauge the actual drop he’d have to go. There were only five seconds of actual thought—before he proceeded to hoist himself out.    
  
“H-hey, wait—!” Jetfire took a sudden inhale of air as the other fell, and he held out his arms in an attempt to break his fall. The landing wasn’t so easy. They both clattered to the ground—though thankfully there was no damage. 

“ _ Goddamn,  _ kid, you weren’t joking!” Wheeljack kept his voice low, though it did not stop the astonishment. The raven haired man paused—only to find himself glowering at him. 

“I’m not a kid,” he huffed—to which Wheeljack chuckled. “Let’s go—I’m dying to check out the library,” 

Hastily, they set off across the campus. They traversed the courtyard, never looking back as they raced to their destination, wanting only to taste the sweet nectar that knowledge promised. They were quick, having no qualms about running from the hospital guards, should they need to. Of course, Starscream led them, being the smallest and fastest of the three. He approached the large, wooden doors engraved artistically with an unknown coat of arms, and words they couldn’t make sense of—Latin, Jetfire assumed—and proceeded to dramatically shove them open. Few people in the library, thankfully. Really, there seemed to be  _ one _ person at the front desk, staring at them as if they each had an extra head.

“C-can I help you gentlemen?” The stutter was unintentional, truly—and the voice, though confident, was soft-spoken. The baritone was somewhat unexpected, given his rather young appearance.

“Yes, hello—” Starscream came to the desk, confident, leading his charges as if by leash to the counter. “I am here to inquire about the location of your science textbooks,”

“You’ll find them in the nonfiction section,” the librarian paused. “...Don’t you want to check out the children’s section? Maybe find something a little bit more your age?” 

The small man blinked. Then the scowl returned. 

“I’m not a damn kid,” he kept an even tone, resisting the urge to roar and caterwaul as he has in the past, “I just want a science book, alright?” 

They exchanged looks, suspicion countered by defiance. 

“...Listen. I’ll need to know your names before I let you into the library,” he answered, voice firm, even if he held a non-threatening body language. He gestured to the clipboard sitting quietly on the desk. “Then, I’ll need you to sign your names on the clipboard just to confirm,” 

Oh, no. The three men froze up, as if deer in headlights. The dark haired librarian watched them, as if with a knowing gaze. 

“Is one person allowed to sign everyone in?” Wheeljack’s voice broke through the tense silence. The other paused. 

“I...suppose so,” he answered. It wasn’t like they needed specific signatures. Just spellings, mostly. Without missing a beat, Wheeljack grabbed up the pen. He scribbled down three names: 

_ Smitty Werbenjagermanjensen _

_ Ant-man _

_ Godzilla  _

“There.” he grinned enthusiastically. “We’re all signed in.” 

There was a slight look of disappointment. No turning them away, it seemed. No calling them on it, either. Yet. 

“Okay...I’ll take you to the adult nonfiction section—it’s upstairs.” The librarian rounded the desk, and led the way up the creaking, wailing staircase to the second floor. Deathly quiet, of course—Not a single voice to be heard. For whatever reason, that almost psychic sense of knowing that he was being watched still haunted Jetfire—even in a library. A safe space. Even as they reached the second floor—even when the second floor was sparsely populated—it was almost as though he could feel those eyes burning into him. 

“So...what’s your name?” Starscream’s voice, rendered a whisper, broke the silence. “I’ll be showing up a lot. I may as well know what to call you,” 

The librarian only paused every now and again to check the section label. 

“Orion,” his own voice held little pride. Just the matter-of-fact tone, willingly answering the question the way a robot would. “Orion Pax.” 

_ What a strange name,  _ Starscream couldn’t help thinking.  _ Whatever happened to Alexis? Or John, or Dave? _ Nevertheless, it was no business of his what name Orion possessed. It could have been as stupid as what the bottle-blond man had chosen, for all he cared. He followed dutifully as he was led to his destiny. To the knowledge he starved for. Finally, they stopped, after some time.

There it was. The non-fiction section. The rust-eyed man dove right in, perusing the section carefully, as if he had been familiar enough to memorize each title, each book cover, the feel and smell of the pages. Orion could only watch as the small man skimmed along the spines of each book, gingerly running his fingers over the smooth feel of the hardbacks, before coaxing his desired publications from their respective resting spots. A wide, toothy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thumbed through the books he’d selected. For whatever reason, the display gripped Orion’s heart, and squeezed. 

“...Does he normally get this excited over reading?” Orion asked of Jetfire, who watched in an almost stunned silence as Starscream had the time of his life, as he  _ smiled  _ the realest smile that Jetfire had ever seen from him, whilst gathering information. 

“Not always. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him  _ this _ excited,” he informed the docile librarian. There was a moment of thought that occurred to Orion, and he turned his attention back to Starscream—who had proudly selected a couple of books already. 

Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was a deep, deep compassion within him that made Orion come to his decision. He watched as the smaller man kept gobbling up information, as if there would be no tomorrow, as if this was his one and only shot at understanding the things that left him dumbfounded. 

“...Listen. I know those names are fake,” his voice cut through the silence, directed at the two men awaiting their companion. “It’s...incredibly clear to me, how fake they are. But, I’ve decided to let you borrow books, anyway. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Just bring the books back by the time you move into the dorms,” 

“How’d you know?” Jetfire inquired, “W-we were so careful—” 

“You froze up when I asked for your names. It was obvious,” the librarian shook his head. “Just stop by the front desk when you’re done.”

With that, Orion was gone. 

Starscream was grinning widely, by the time he came back to them. 

“I’m ready to go!” he proudly announced, in a hushed tone as to not disrupt the other readers. He held a small pile of five textbooks in his hands. 

“Good,” Wheeljack eyed the books warily. “...But how are we gonna sneak them back in?” 

“Easy. Just hide them under our clothes. Security is too lax, and the doctors aren’t observant enough—they’ll never notice,” Starscream’s words seemed to glow with pride as he tried to lower his voice into a whisper. “We’ll be fine, I promise.” 

He ended up only carrying one book. Jetfire carried two, as did Wheeljack. Just a typical day, breaking the rules. A gorgeous day for it, really—and strangely, it took less time than expected. It wasn’t even dinner time, yet. The sun hadn’t even lowered itself to the horizon. 

It was a relatively quiet walk back. Starscream gently reached up to pat Jetfire’s back. 

“What’d you think, Big Guy? Did you have fun?” 

His heart skipped. Perhaps it was the adrenaline. Perhaps the thrill was giving him a high he never expected to have for such a small adventure. It wasn’t like they’d gone into something bigger than themselves. It wasn’t like they’d taken part in some sort of spy mission—and yet, he found himself exhilarated. He looked down, at that expectant face, graced with a smirk. How could he say no?

“...You know what? I guess this was a little fun,” he answered, only to receive snort. 

“I  _ told  _ you this would be fun!” The triumphant laugh tumbling from Starscream’s lips was a significant improvement to the tantrum he threw that first day. Jetfire couldn’t help smiling to himself. He would say it was almost infectious. 

Once they returned, they hoisted themselves up back into the room they escaped from, doing everything in their power to remain inconspicuous. Once back in the room—the common room, no less—they gathered themselves again. Relief flooded their senses, as they avoided capture. Safe another day. 

In the euphoria that came with successfully breaking the rules, Jetfire paused. He could finally cease all movement, no longer animated, just a still statue biding his time. He relinquished the two books, and watched as the little lion trotted off with Wheeljack in tow, right back to the room they resided in. It was then, and only then he remembered his book. 

“Oh,” he mumbled, cool, calm, composed—only to turn to the table. 

It was gone. All at once, the relief that had washed over him, the afterglow of their successful venture into rule-breaking burned up into nothing, just ash and dust in the depths of his soul. He could vaguely feel his heart beating wildly against his ribcage, yearning to burst free. In a wild fear—All he could think of was that goddamn line, the nighttime visitor—and a moment of struggling to keep his thoughts under control, he began to look for it; Under the table, in the shelving, under other books. 

_ Where did it go?  _ He demanded of himself,  _ Did someone take it? _ It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. It was a book. There were plenty of books in the common room, and in the library.  _ Why did it matter?  _   
  
He stepped back from his spot, entranced in his own anxieties. No more. He would go back to his room, and wind down for the rest of the afternoon. The escapade they went on must’ve just heightened his anxiety. Yes, that must’ve been the answer. Today was too stressful. With some pride in himself, having found some level of explanation, he turned and left the room as quickly as he could manage, despite the wobbling of his legs, putting purpose into every stride.    
  
Upon returning, he was greeted with a peaceful sight; The little rabble-rouser in bed, flipping through one of those science textbooks. It was almost too big for his tiny hands, weathered, as if read a million times in an attempt to understand. The russet-eyed man would look up from the textbook upon hearing those heavy footsteps, struggling to stay upright, enter. Silent understanding, for a moment—he must’ve picked up on Jetfire’s anxieties based on body language—as he watched. 

“You okay?” he asked, to which Jetfire nodded, robbed of his words by the thoughts racing through his head like errant locomotives:  _ What if Dr. Stone took it? What if Dr. Glassman has been spying on me? No, that can’t be right. No, no, that isn’t right. Has anyone been watching me at all? What about that person— _

He crossed the room with ease, long legs carrying him shakily, still slow. 

“You sure you’re okay?” The twinge of concern was uncharacteristic in his voice—but Jetfire brushed it off, intent only on hiding until those feelings left all together. “Did something happen?” 

“I’m okay,” Jetfire asserted, finally reaching his bed, only to stop dead in his tracks. 

The book. In perfect condition. Sitting with that same hasty bookmark Jetfire slid between the pages. When did that get there? He swallowed thickly, almost unable to breathe. He picked it up, only to notice a new note, tucked just beneath the cover, poking out of the bottom. He pulled it out. His heart sank, and his blood ran cold. He held the note, in a trembling hand, and scanned his eyes over the message:

_ Be more careful. They’re watching. _


End file.
